


Whumptober 2019

by WriterReadsStuff



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crime Fighting, Domestic Avengers, F/M, Guns, Handcuffs, Injury, Kidnapping, Knives, Mental Instability, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pain, Painnnnnn, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Ransom, Torture, Violence, Whumptober 2019, Woops, but also other ppl, but like nothing goes their way, i like to hurt tony and his kids, no beta we die like men, no proofreading either
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-11-09 08:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 9,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20850698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterReadsStuff/pseuds/WriterReadsStuff
Summary: These stories are all intended to be read as stand-alone fics, unless stated otherwise. They center around the Marvel Cinematic Universe and follow the Whumptober 2019 prompt list. Individual summaries are provided in each chapter.





	1. October 1- Shaky Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Peter’s hands were shaking like crazy. Back and forth, back and forth. Rocking, no this didn’t feel like rocking. Rocking was calming. He felt like he was running. Running, running, running. Like water. No, not water. Never water. Not again. No more water, his nose still stung from the prior round of waterboarding.

“Steady! Steady! Keep still!”

What was happening? He was just getting off that private jet, how did he end up here? And who was doing all of that yelling?

His ears ringed, constant. Like little bells. Ding, dong, ding, dong.

“Do it!”

Peter’s hands were shaking like crazy. Back and forth, back and forth. Rocking, no this didn’t feel like rocking. Rocking was calming. He felt like he was running. Running, running, running. Like water. No, not water. Never water. Not again. No more water, his nose still stung from the prior round of waterboarding.

“Don’t drop it, you little twerp!” What had he done? Were his hands going limp? Maybe, but that would require him to still be alive. Otherwise, they’d been limp for a while. He didn’t feel alive.

“Keep the gun pointed at me, you bring it down and I have plenty of people nearby prepared to strangle some toddlers!” Yelling. Why was he yelling? Who was yelling? Why were they threatening his friends? What did they do?

“This isn’t the time for a panic attack, Spider-Man, you’ll have plenty of those once you get dragged to the Raft!” Raft? What raft? Was he in the ocean? Had there been a shipwreck? No, he was on land. In the warehouse. How did he know that? When did he arrive at the warehouse? Was he still in London? 

His hands were numb. Like someone had drugged him- had someone drugged him? No, he didn’t remember that. But, then again, he didn’t remember a lot of things.

“Steady those hands, Parker! I’m not messing around here!” Ned. Where was Ned?

“You’re little friend’s back at the hotel, safe, and if you want it to stay that way you better stop all that shaking and pull the trigger before you drop the goddamned thing!” Was he talking out loud? How had the other person heard him? If Ned is safe, what about MJ? She’s at a higher risk. Was she still at the hotel as well?

“I said pull it, you little freak!” Stop. Stop yelling. No, keep yelling. Yelling meant he hadn’t pulled it yet. He was safe. She wasn’t.

“By the count of three, or the girl is dead, one! Two!” And Peter pulled. He was so scared, so he pulled.

Peter came back to his senses twelve minutes later, Beck long gone, with his blood coating the walls. He’d done it. He’d shot him in the arm. And, when from the right angle, it’d look like a shot to the heart. A shot that, if it was real, would be lethal.

Lethal. Oh god. Oh no.

Or, rather, lethal enough to cause an uproar. A distraction, a riot, a murder-hunt.

Peter was a murderer. Not really, but they didn’t know that. They’d find him. He’d go to jail, they’d give him the chair, the accords would become stricter, people would...

May would be questioned, Ben’s name would be disgraced. MJ was probably dead already. No way Beck really kept his word. He probably killed her anyway. And Ned. Maybe Betty saw.

Peter was screwed, so screwed. And then it all went black.

-

“You okay, loser?” MJ asked, shaking Peter from his nightmares for the eighth time since they had gone to sleep.

“I’ll live.” He muttered, grabbing his head in pain. It stung like bees, and made his ears ring with the volume of a million bells. So, tuesday.

“You know you don’t have to do this alone, right?” She checked, cuddling into his side. “Yeah, I know.” He whispered, joining her embrace. “That’s why I’m bringing you with me.”

She jumped up, grabbing his hand, and pulling him off of the bed. “Come on, time to get dressed. Gotta impress the jury.”

“Hey, MJ?” Peter asked, grabbing the brunette’s attention. “We’re gonna win.” He reassured.

“Of course. Beck’ll be behind bars come Mornin’.”


	2. October 2- Explosion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While running through a set of noise-triggered land mines in a definitely-terrorist-front restaurant, neither or them have noticed the incessant shaking below them. 
> 
> The floor is beginning to cave in.

Natasha Romanoff does not get scared.

She’s not like other humans. She’s... special. That’s what Fury says. That’s what she always heard back in Russia. She’s just better.

Natasha does not feel emotions like other people, she is not as vulnerable. She does not feel fear, not enough to count.

She’s no robot, not by a long shot. Still too fleshy, too much blood, not enough metal, etcetera. 

But she’s far from human.

And that’s why she spends her time around Clint. He’s so human it practically hurts. He has children, has a wife, feels emotion, and gets hurt easily. He’s everything Natasha isn’t.

Together, they’re inevitably going to lead SHEILD into utter victory. That’s why they’re on this mission, after all. Where Natasha can face danger without blinking an eye, Clint gets them through the more touchy-feely parts. And, so, they always come out alive. Hopefully that won’t end today.

Or maybe it will.

Because, while running through a set of noise-triggered land mines in a definitely-terrorist-front restaurant, neither or them have noticed the incessant shaking below them. 

The floor is beginning to cave in.

Natasha does not react. Instead, she tucks each of her limbs into themselves, jumping into the air and letting herself pass through the floor and onto the tile below. The kitchen.

But Clint, poor Clint, screams. He screams, and screams, and triggers a mine to blow up.

Suddenly, Natasha can feel so many emotions at once that it almost strikes her dead. She’s scared, for the first time, and wants nothing more than to be back in her quarters at SHEILD HQ. She doesn’t want to die, she’s not ready.

But, she can’t die today. Because Clint has already grabbed her by the arm, pulling her as far from the explosions as he can. She’s light, as she barely eats, but he can only pull her to the front door of the building.

The mission is called off, all evidence blown to smithereens in the chaos. Severed limbs of the totally-terrorists line the pavement, and only the two agents remain.

“Let’s try to avoid that in the future.” Clint says. But, Natasha is quick on her toes.

“We wouldn’t have to avoid it if you would just learn to stop screaming, birdbrain.”


	3. October 3- Delirium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And Beck shoots, and Peter screams. He screams, and cries, and he knows it isn’t real but he doesn’t care anymore. He can’t care. This man has invaded his mind so deeply that Peter can no longer discern reality from his lies.

Peter’s going mad.

Beck’s voice was echoing in his mind, repeating the man’s words back to him. Clockwork, they went back and forth as the growls tortured his mind as rocked his soul.

He kept watching the world as it shook. Like a metronome keeping his heart’s fast beats stuck to an impossible tempo, he felt the earth dance to the tune of chaos.

Up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down.

“You’re just a little kid in a sweatsuit”

Left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left.

“Maybe if you were good enough, Tony would still be alive.”

He’s here. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here.

And suddenly, the world stops. Voices fill Peter’s head, much louder than the ones before. They’re yelling, screaming, shouting, and growling at him.

His mind swirls, pushing the voices forward and bringing along faces with them.

In the room he sees his loved ones. Many of which, appear mutilated and cold. A bullet through Ben’s head, a slice along his mother’s throat, his father’s chest is split open, and so on for hours. But May... May isn’t far off.

Behind her is Beck, once again in his mocap suit. He wears a pair of Stark Industries safety goggles, in place of EDITH. And in his hand, a gun. The same gun he had tried to use on Peter.

And Beck shoots, and Peter screams. He screams, and cries, and he knows it isn’t real but he doesn’t care anymore. He can’t care. This man has invaded his mind so deeply that Peter can no longer discern reality from his lies.

Beck took Peter’s broken pieces and hit them with a sledgehammer.

And Peter had let him.


	4. October 7- Isolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I tried to post the last couple days but my Ao3 was down, so sorry we missed them!  
-  
But Tony couldn’t stop him. Not when his sort-of-son-it’s-just-complicated was being used like a toy, tossed around and abused as if he wasn’t a human being with feelings and a pain tolerance. Not when the boy’s identity was shared against his will.
> 
> He was all alone.

Tony’s soul was wandering.

Merrily it strolled along the streets, dancing along the branches of each tree it passed. The lake rippled beneath it, glowing slightly.

And, suddenly, it was ending the journey.

Alone, no team, no friends, no family. He was conscious, whether a gift or a curse, watching the world go by. Pepper was crying, he could see her, but he couldn’t reach out and hold her hand. He was alive, in soul instead of body, but they didn’t know that. How could they?

The funeral was lovely, fit for a king. Not grand in the sense, no, but lovely. They were all there, celebrating him. He missed them.

But he was all alone. No one to speak to, no matter how hard he tried.

-

His not-surrogate-son-but-totally-his-surrogate-son was an idiot.

Peter flipping Parker gave EDITH to a guy that was so clearly a villain it brought Tony physical pain. Or, not physical, as he isn’t physical. Oh, who cares?

Besides, it wasn’t that much of a surprise that James Ultorr turned out to be a good-for-nothing little scammer. The guy threw a fit the moment he found out Tony was going to name his technology “mustard” in germany. And when he saw the english name, he reacted so poorly he was fired on the spot.

But, Tony had to commend the guy, Quentin was a pretty cool name. No doubt a trustworthy story, too.

Still, bad guy.

But Tony couldn’t stop him. Not when his sort-of-son-it’s-just-complicated was being used like a toy, tossed around and abused as if he wasn’t a human being with feelings and a pain tolerance. Not when the boy’s identity was shared against his will.

He couldn’t do anything.

And he never would. 

He was all alone.


	5. October 8- Stab Wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It hurts, oh sweet lord, get the drugs! Get the drugs!” Steve screamed from the bed.

Steve Rogers didn’t know how to cook.

Steven Grant Rogers, America’s golden boy, didn’t know how to cook.

What. The. Everloving. Fu-

“Stark, can you stop with the internal monologue for a moment? We’re trying to carry around 300 pounds of fossilized human flesh over here.” Alright, maybe Natasha had a point. But, still. Steve Rogers didn’t know how to cook.

Hell, the guy stabbed himself with a zester. How bad at cooking does someone have to be to cause fatal injury while moving a stick up and down?

Without a doubt, Steve was never going to outlive this one, no sir. Even as the super soldier was lifted onto the hospital bed in the med bay, all Tony could think was “here we go, where’s my camera?” 

He’d been trying to zest an orange- which, not to insult, but even Peter could do that- and had slipped. Next thing anyone knew, the zester was inside Steve.

For context, that meant that Steve doesn’t know how to cook. Not only could he not cool, he sucked at it. He sucked so much he nearly got himself killed by a zester. Like, imagine the tombstone. “Steven Grant Rogers, 1935ish-2019, famous avenger, killed by a zester.”

Not that it mattered much, since Wanda instantly ripped the thing out with her chaos magic stuff. Well, it mattered to Steve, technically, since he was in even worse pain afterwards. Officially, during flight or fight decisions, Wanda is no longer allowed to choose “accidentally kill your teammates faster”. 

“It hurts, oh sweet lord, get the drugs! Get the drugs!” Steve screamed from the bed.

Cho sighed, signaling for a nurse to grab the restraints they’d made for this exact purpose. “We’re administering your medication, Steve, just wait.” 

However, Steve didn’t seem to like that answer, and quickly grew in violence levels as the young nurses scrambled to grab his wrists. “I won’t wait! It hurts! Help me!”

Still, Cho looked at him. How dumb was he? This was not dying 101. “Let Dr. Sabe wrap your bandages. We need to stop the bleeding.”

When Steve continued to fight, she made a last ditch effort at calming him. “Did I say you could move? Hm? No? Then maybe you should stop moving before the pain gets worse.”

And Steve did not stop moving. And the pain got much worse.


	6. October 9- Shackled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Get it sent out.” Blondie barked. “Maybe put it in the mailboxes of a few major news organizations, and speed the process along.”

_Oh, god. Oh no. This isn’t happening. Please, please this isn’t happening. Oh no. Oh god. Please. Let me go. What did I do to you? What is it this time? Please, God. I’m begging you. Let me go. Let me go, please._

He was down. His hands were being chained up to a pole in the basement of some self-obsessed psychopath with too-tight cuffs and a ball gag in his mouth.

“You have experience with these, don’t you?” The aforementioned self-obsessed psychopath asked. Tony mumbled, attempting a cocky _“if only you were a puerto rican woman, and wearing nothing but one of my ties”_, but ended up simply making muffled noises.

“What, can’t talk?” Mr. dickhead joked. Tony glared back at him, contemplating the many ways he could end this man’s life.

As saliva began pouring down Tony’s mouth from the lack of swallowing, the guy reached out. He gently rubbed the edge of his sleeve against Tony’s face, effectively wiping away the spit. “Here. Better clean that up. You’re precious cargo, after all.”

The man snapped, signaling the lights in the room to brighten. Now, Tony could see a few men standing in the corners of the room, keeping guard.

Suddenly, a bunch more men entered the room. One, with slick blonde hair and green eyes, began to bark orders. “Better chain up his feet, this guy’s got a high bounty. Can’t risk an escape, not with this much dough on the line.” On que, one of the many lackeys surrounding Tony began to follow the orders to a T.

Blondie looked at the men around him, few of which were actually doing anything. “Smith, grab the camera. Amirez, get the table all set. Don’t drop the cuff ‘till we’re ready to film. And Lucas, you can get Pullman in here. We need those steady hands.”

Two of the men moved, but one stayed in place and looked down at his feet. He was shorter, and Tony honestly believed he couldn’t be much more than nineteen, at the oldest. Blondie nudged the guy next to him, who quickly took to the stand to discipline the younger member.

“Lucas, go. We ain’t diobeyin’ orders jus’ to keep your friggin’ job in tact. Get Pullman.”

The younger looked up. “Pullman isn’t coming, sir. He’s in Peru, remember?”

“And?”

“We can’t get him here. I’d record, but I need to be the one on camera, so...” Lucas looked back down to his feet, shuffling them around.

“Whatcha gon’ do about it?” Blondie asked. Lucas stared at him for a second, before looking at the older man next to him.

“Ashley, please.” Lucas begged, as Ashley nodded, scared. Of what, Tony did not know, but the kid was clearly not a part of this gang-terrorists hybrid club by his own will. Poor thing was probably kidnapped or something, maybe his family was being threatened, who knows? It just couldn’t be good.

A tall hyspanic man spoke quietly, looking at another guy with confusion. “¿Que es él hablando? Que están ellos haciendo?” **(What is he saying? What are they doing?)**

“Algo sobre los dedos. Y no sé.” **(Something about fingers. And I don’t know.) **The other responded, also looking slightly confused. Clearly, the bilingual department had not been given much information on what was about to go down.

“Now, you go do the honors.” Blondie said, pointing towards Lucas. “Remember to treat it as your reward for that bombing last week.”

“Yes, sir.”

Next, the kid came towards Tony with a knife. Slowly, he released on of Tony’s cuffs and laid the hand on a table. He brought thel knife closer to Tony’s pointer finger, as Tony began to realize what he was about to do.

And, reluctant as he was, Lucas sliced.

Muffled screams of pain echoed throughout the room, caught and preserved by the camera that recorded the whole thing.

“Get it sent out.” Blondie barked. “Maybe put it in the mailboxes of a few major news organizations, and speed the process along.” He said, before realizing something. “Not FOX. Try CNN or something.”

As the other men filed out, Mr. Ginger Man With No Name (Tony kind of liked that one) stayed for one last talk.

“You’ll be worth plenty, we sure. ‘Bout half as much as it would’a costed to put togetha a funeral. Be thankful, Stark.”

“We’ll see you tomorrow mornin’. If you’re lucky, the ransom’ll be sent in and you’ll getta keep your middle finger. Would be a shame to lose that one, wouldn’t it?”

And if he could, Tony would have shoved that same finger right in that guy’s face.


	7. October 10- Unconscious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You said he would wake up soon!” Pepper cried, holding onto Tony’s limp  
hand. It had been four weeks.
> 
> Helen shouted “I said he might!”, drawing up cold tears in her own eyes. She’d always had a soft spot for the man.
> 
> But Tony, Tony laid still, as always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today’s blurb is short, i’m sorry. My dog got very sick and I spent most of my time after school, aka writing time, sitting with her in the hospital. Poor thing decided to channel her inner Tiana and kiss a frog.

Tony wasn’t there.

He was in the room, but that was about it. Only physical placement, no signs of awareness.

Helen had called it a stress-induced coma, where his brain had shut down the parts of his body that weren’t needed for survival in order to focus its energy on the ones that were. It made sense, really, but at the same time, it was like she had been speaking in Finnish or something. The words meant nothing to Pepper.

Helen had claimed that the coma could last anywhere between a few hours and a few years. However, if her 12 years of medical school were to be trusted, with the use of the right meds and proper medical attention, he had the odds in his favor.

She sat by his bedside each day, watching for any signs that he might be waking up. He had to, for her, for Peter, for Rhodey, for Morgan. He just had to.

As hours turned to days, she grew worried. But, like all emotions, it only grew with time. Soon, she was hysterical with grief.

“You said he would wake up soon!” Pepper cried, holding onto Tony’s limp  
hand. It had been four weeks.

Helen shouted “I said he might!”, drawing up cold tears in her own eyes. She’d always had a soft spot for the man.

But Tony, Tony laid still, as always.


	8. October 11- Stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgan watched her for a second, warily. She’d only been to the doctor a few times in her short life, and none of them had been fun. But... maybe she could get a Shimmer and Shine sticker. Or a sucker. Or... or... something even cooler!

Listen...

Tony and Pepper love Morgan. Really, they do. But, sometimes they question how much of her mother and father’s intelligence she actually inherited.

She was going through the dreaded ballerina phase. Now, normally this wouldn’t be so concerning, but Morgan’s lack of physical coordination was proving to be quite the test on the couple’s patience.

So, they watched her closely. Just, not closely enough.

While Pepper was finishing up with approving the script for an upcoming tech reveal, Tony struggled to balance making some VIPCs (very important phone calls) and watching a four-year old prima donna practice pirouettes.

And Morgan slipped.

She slipped, falling down in slow motion as Tony ran to catch her, her head slamming harshly into the thick glass of the coffee table. Pieces shattered among the floor, as the little girl began to cry out in pain and reach for her head.

“No, no baby. Don’t touch it! Here, it’s alright. Daddy’s got you.” “Pepper! Come in here!”

And as Pepper ran down the hallway, shaken by the commotion and fearing the worst, her head reeled with possibilities. Perhaps Morgan was dead, gone like an old man in his sleep. But worse. It’s always worse when it’s a child. It’s always worse when it’s _your_ child.

“Coming!” She shouted, before catching sight of her little girl’s body, covered in blood and lying in a pool of broken glass. “Morgan!”

“I’m gonna go get the car started, elevate her head!” Tony yelled, running out of the cabin at full speed. He was such a good dad, always worrying about his child. But Morgan didn’t know that. All she knew was that everything hurt.

“Oh no, baby. It’s alright. I got you. I know. Mama’s here.” Pepper whispered, attempting to keep her tone of voice light as she quelled her young daughter’s frightened tears.

Finally, Tony ran in and grabbed Pepper’s arms, taking his two girls with him to the car.

The drive was only ten minutes, but it felt like it took years to reach the hospital. Everything in their life felt fast, fans and money and the lot, and this was the first slow experience Pepper had had since Morgan was a baby. However, it was only when they ran into the emergency room with a child and a giant flashing sign on their faces reading “STARK” that they were glad to be rich and famous.

They were immediately escorted to a private room.

“She hit her head off the coffee table, broke the glass.” He said to the nurse that brought them to the small space. Morgan was crying harder now, her face coated in tears, some dried and some fresh.

“Oh no. It’s alright, sweetheart.” The nurse claimed. “The doctor’ll come in after a few minutes of waiting and fix you right up. Okay?”

Morgan watched her for a second, warily. She’d only been to the doctor a few times in her short life, and none of them had been fun. But... maybe she could get a Shimmer and Shine sticker. Or a sucker. Or... or... something even cooler!

“Okay.” She agreed. Popping her thumb into her mouth, only for it to be rudely pulled back out by her shaking father.

Eventually, the doctor came in and looked at the girl’s head. She’d prescribed a set of stitches, nothing more, nothing less. No pain killers or morphine. Morgan would have to feel it if they wanted to get this done fast.

Each prick, tug, and slice felt like acetone was being poured directly into Tony’s blood, and he wasn’t even the one getting the procedure done. Morgan was a champ, though, barely even whined. She just sat still as a statue and let the woman work.

“She’ll be good as new in a month or two. For now, it’s probably time to lay low on the ballet.”

“You’re telling me.”


	9. October 12- “Don’t Move”

Bright lights, loud noises, flashing lights, whispers, yelling, movements, neon colors, camera shutters, etcetera, etcetera. All things visual, auditory, and in between cause Peter’s spidey sense to go off. Spidey sense, not Peter tingle. It’s that simple, May, really. It hurts like hell, sure, but Peter’s learned to endure it.

“Mr. Parker.”

Usually, the feeling of his head pounding and his eyes stinging fades to the background, leaving Peter to pay attention to the matters at hand. In fact, that’s what happens every time. Well, almost every time. Not this time. This time Peter’s whole body is screaming, demanding attention. Telling him over and over that danger is abound.

“Mr. Parker.”

This isn’t another moment of slight distaste. This isn’t Flash throwing a pen at Peter’s head, or May sneaking into his room, or Ned and Michelle tripping over someone’s backpack. No, this was a real threat. Like, a serious threat. Something was wrong. If only spidey senses came with a feature that told you what the heck this threat was.

“Peter!”

“Sorry, Mr. Wisenbockfeld.” Peter rushedly apologized, zoning back into the world. “Dude, you gotta pay more attention.” Ned whispered to him, leaning over from his spot in the neighboring desk. “One of these times a teacher that actually cares about you paying attention is going to catch you zoning out and we’ll all be screwed.” Peter giggled, thinking about his frequent self-monologuing that had occurred throughout the day. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah I knowwwwwwww.” He whined, joking with the other boy. “Listen,” he began “my sixth sense is going crazy today. Like... like something is about to go down.”

“Is it something bad?” Ned qustioned, hating to interrogate his best friend. Still, it wasn’t the time for best friend conversations. It was time to be the guy in the chair. “Probably.” Peter shrugged out, rolling his wrist, a nervous tick he had developed over the last few years.  
“Then why aren’t you taking care of it?” Peter shrugged once more. “I don’t know what it is, Ned!”

As if on cue, the sound of a gun being cocked echoed through Peter’s highly-sensitive eardrums. Ohhhhhh no.

And there it was, the gunshots. As the other students could now hear their impending doom, many of them shifted into fight or flight. Some ran for the windows, only to realize they were on the fourteenth floor, others hid beneath desks, the rest either found something to throw or prepped weapons.

MJ had the sense to gather kids into the corner, keeping the potential victims out of sight through the window attatched to the door. Ned pulled Peter to the side, looking at him with tears in his eyes.

“Oh. Now I know what it is.”

“You think?” Ned complained, looking around fearfully. Peter rolles his eyes, taking stock of his options. _Save the kids_, his brain echoed, _save the kids_.

“Be still, Ned. Whatever you do, keep everyone safe. I’ll head out and take care of the bad guys.”

“Peter...” Ned breathed out, realizing what his friend was about to do.

**“Don’t move.”**


	10. October 13- Adrenaline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like the whole world was silent, all Tony heard was his own heart beating fastly in his ears. 
> 
> Bum, bum, bum.
> 
> And then it happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will I ever stop harming Morgan? No, no I will not.

_God, Saturdays are the spawn of the devil himself. Or Thanos, but he’s basically the devil. Maybe the lovechild of Thanos and the devil. Yeah, sure._

_God, Saturdays are the lovechild of Thanos and the devil. Yes, much better._

Tony had never liked the days Morgan wasn’t at preschool, but Saturdays were the worst. Don’t get him wrong, he loves spending time with his little ray of sunshine, but sometimes her energy takes a toll on him.

The little girl’s endless bouts of dopamine basically allow her to fly, making her the second super-powered child Tony has had to take care of in the past decade. Third child in all, he should probably write a parenting book at this rate. 

As much as he loved Morgan, the kid seriously needed to chill. She ran everywhere, every Saturday she’d ever experienced, on the dot. Even as a newborn, she seemed to wiggle ten times more purely because it was Saturday. It was becoming a problem.

She wouldn’t hold Tony’s hand in public, and he wasn’t about to resort to using a child leash, so he simply had to have her hold onto his pant leg while he gripped her shoulder. Aka, he caved. But it worked. She never ran off or anything.

Well, not yet.

And ‘yet’ is a very dangerous word to say. Because, sure enough, today Morgan decided to put her father’s parenting skills to the test and ditch him while they were at the park. Chasing her down the street, he tried to get her to stop, but Morgan didn’t listen. She was 5, what did he expect?

And then the little girl ran into the parking lot. The busy, constantly filled with moving cars parking lot. And soon a little bunch of brown hair was splayed across the ground, its body finding its way beneath a car. 

Tony’s ears rushed with blood. Dripping with exhilaration and panic.

Everything banged and boomed, screaming at him until it all went quiet. Like the whole world was silent, all Tony heard was his own heart beating fastly in his ears.

Bum, bum, bum.

And then it happened.

In his panic, he ran towards his daughter, screaming at the driver to stop. The man did, realizing that the matter was urgent. Running to his little girl’s body, Tony put both hand on either side of the vehicle, lifting it with ease.

He put one hand beneath the car, grabbing Morgan and placing her in his arms. Surrounding onlookers called 911, noticing the immense amount of blood pouring from the five year old’s chest, where a large gash resided beneath her Hello Kitty sweater.

And Morgan was safe in her father’s arms, if not for the moment.


	11. October 15- Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve’s an idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. So, I skipped yesterday for writer’s block sake, but I’m back!  
Today’s story is based on a story from one of my friends, where he was injured by a fellow boy-scout with a flashlight during a hike. He would like you all to know that he’s a “total Bucky”, whatever that means.

Steve’s an idiot.

Really, he is. It’s hard to blame Bucky for thinking so. How does someone even screw up this bad? It shouldn’t be possible. Nobody should be dumb enough to crack their best pal’s head open. With the shield, too!

But, here Bucky is, still dealing with the dumb old scar from a mission-gone-awkward in the 40’s. All the other howling commandos may be dead, but Buck simply cannot live that one down. Then again, neither can Steve. Not after that day.

-

“Poor old sap tryin’ to act like his face ain’t bright red again?” Bucky asked, looking over towards the corner the men had dubbed their “dysentery dungeon”. Steve had been sick for a couple of days, and it was the longest run he’d had of an illness since becoming a “super-soldier-serum-secret-government-science-project”.

_Goodness gracious, that’s a lot of s words._

“He hasn’t been in their all day. Guy’s healthy.” Jim explained, shrugging his soldiers as he filled up his canteen. _Third of the day, the greedy bastard._

Bucky grimaced, walking over to the tent where the other soldiers were passing the time before they made their next move. He had to admit, the comment threw him for a small loop. “Doubt I’ll ever get used to fellas callin’ Steve Rogers healthy. I’ve hadda carry him to bed after a five block walk more than enough times.”

“Maybe check that tree he’s been hugging? Ol’ man’s probably still hanging on it.” Jim retorted, throwing the canteen at Bucky’s feet.

_ What a little tool_, Bucky thought, picking the water-filled jug back up and throwing it as its owner. Jim had been on-and-off for the past few days, still somewhat stuck in the recovery state after a nasty round of lyme disease. He’d made it and all, but the guy was moody as all hell.

“You think?” He asked, glancing over at the tree in question. Nobody really knew why Steve liked hiding by the tree so much, it was just one of the man’s many little quirks. Gave him his personality. Bucky shrugged. “Eh, why not? Might as well check.”

As he rounded the corner of the tree, Bucky expected to find Steve, probably crying over that little picture of Peggy Carter like he had been the past few nights. He missed her, Bucky got that part, but damn was it annoying. However, instead, Bucky found nothing but a small frog hopping along a puddle. “Well hello the-” he began, only to be cut off by a sudden strong force slamming into the side of his skull. His body fell roughly onto the dirt ground below, banging his ribs against painful rocks and animal carcasses.

Not surprisingly, he turned over to find Steve standing, panicked, with the shield in hand. “I’m so sorry, Bucky!” The uncharacteristically large man exclaimed, kneeling down to examine his injured friend. Bucky goraned, gripping onto his aching head. “What was that for, you tryin’ to kill me ‘fore Hitler gets the glory?” “I was just checking the strength on the shield!”

In that moment, Bucky noticed the sting along his skull. In realization of the injury, he removed his hand from the wound, finding it drenched in blood. Still, he gathered the strength to give one last remark to his friend before his vision grew too spotty to stay awake. “Against my head? You’re dense, pal. Call the medic, I’m down.”

-

Everyday, Bucky examines the scar along his skull. It runs wide, clearly having been stitched up in a military camp. Its dark, large, and straggly, but its a memory. The scar represents Steve to him. Filled with memories, love, and stupidity. Simple as that. Dumb as a rock, but filled with a big old heart. And that’s Steve, all right.

If only he wasn’t such an idiot.


	12. October 17- “Stay With Me”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So simple, so sweet. Like a doll with smooth porcelain glass for skin. Nice and perfect and clean. He chose to ignore the blood slipping out from the straight line carved into her collarbone and up through her neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of a chapter yesterday. I was an extra on Chicago Fire so I watched the whole 3 hour crossover event so I could see myself.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

_God, Pep. No. Please. No. Don’t do this to me, don’t leave, stay here._

His wife’s body laid lifeless on the floor of their penthouse kitchen. No pulse, no breath, no nothing. Just a lonely woman laying dead on the floor.

No, not dead. Asleep. That’s all she was doing. Sleeping peacefully and dreaming about sugarplum fairies and candy canes.

So simple, so sweet. Like a doll with smooth porcelain glass for skin. Nice and perfect and clean. He chose to ignore the blood slipping out from the straight line carved into her collarbone and up through her neck.

_I need you to open those eyes, Pep. Please, open them. Let that big old heart beat. Show me you’re still okay._

Tony wasn’t dumb, not according to the rest of the world. Not even according to Howard. No, he knew what was going on.

His wife was dead as a rock.

Still, he couldn’t bring himself to admit such a thing. She had to still be fighting. She had to be. Because if she wasn’t, he would have to come to terms with the fact that she wasn’t going to wake up in a few hours time.

_Please, I’m begging you. **Stay with me.**_

He hadn’t even heard the intruder alert go off. Tony had muted FRIDAY after one too many reminders of his impending starvation.

Maybe, if she hadn’t been on mute, Pepper would still be alive.

_Please. No. Don’t die on me, please don’t die on me. I need you. You can’t be dead. Not now. Not when you’re pregnant. Not when this kid’s thirty years old. Not ever. Honey, please don’t go._

But he had to realize it at some point.

It was time to call the authorities, get a detective on the case. He had to know who had hurt his wife. His angel. The most precious being in the universe.

_I thought we were in it for the long run. What happened? Who did this?_

Tony was angry. Angry and angry and angry and mad as hell.

He’d kill them. He’d find them himself, he’d tie them up, and he’d kill them.

Just like they had killed his wife and unborn child. His baby. His little girl. They were going to name her Morgan.

Morgan Hope Stark.

And, suddenly, he wasn’t angry any more. He was sad. Sad and depressed. Mad at the world for its actions. but more disappointed in it for the same reasons.

And he could only think of one phrase.

_I love you._


	13. October 18- Muffled Scream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter Parker hated Mondays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is short, I suck, I know, I’m sorry.

Peter woke up, screaming into his pillow as he laid stomach-down in his bed.

_Mondays._

He knew it made him sound like an orange tabby cat scarfing down a plate of lasagna, but it was 100% true. Peter Parker hated Mondays. No, not because of school. He actually rather enjoyed school if it wasn’t for Flash’s relentless chastising. In fact, he would say he even loved it. He had a whole other reason for hating the retched day.

On Mondays, Peter went to therapy. Now, most people who go to therapy say that they enjoy it, but others (see: Peter Benjamin Parker) find it tiring and wasteful. All it did was give him a bad case of insomnia and nightmares. He hated the way it reminded him of Beck, constantly teasing his mind until that night came.

He would always dream about the illusions. Seeing such awful things had caused his mind to almost short-circuit itself, and ended up causing him to remember them as even worse.

But, nobody cared. May, albeit she gave Peter some ibuprofen before bed whenever the weekly insomnia arrived, had been given strict directions by Dr. Derecha to not disrupt the cycle too much. Apparently, the nightmares were “normal” and “necessary for the healing process to begin”.

_Pardon the curse word, but what a load of shit._

Peter, to sat the least, was unamused. He hated doing this. He hated Dr. Derecha. He hated May. He hated Ned. He... he hated himself most of all. Even though his therapy was entirely managed by Mrs. Stark, and Peter would do anything for Pepper, he never wanted to deal with all of the aftermath.

But, what other option did he have? (Answer: none) No, Peter knew that he had to listen to the adults. Which sucked, really, because he was supposed to be 22 and not 17. He was an adult, just not really. Not at all. Not after everything. He couldn’t be mature right now. He needed his aunt. He needed a hug.

So, he gathered, his courage, slipped his feet off of the bed, and walked to May’s room.


	14. October 19- Asphyxiation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maria Rambeau was drowning in a lake somewhere on the east end of the town and all Carol was doing was making a grilled cheese sandwich.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maria and Carol are dating. Why? Because make my own canon.

  
Carol’s hands lay steady on the warm pan, preparing to flip the greasy mess of a sandwich over to brown-side up.

She couldn’t remember why she was in such a position, medium length blonde hair flowing over either shoulder and gracefully cooking low-effort food in an empty house. She only knew one thing, someone was hurt. Someone she cared about. She could feel it, deep in her bones.

She thought back through her day’s activities. A few hours of training, a stop by the corner store to pick up some grapes for lunch, a few more hours of training, and so on and so on. Nothing that could have led her to be making a grilled cheese sandwich at 2 in the morning on a Thursday.

She was forgetting something. Her mind had blocked something, something important, from her conscious state. She was going to sit here, alone, and never remember who was hurt and Maria would leave her and-

Maria.

Maria Rambeau was drowning in a lake somewhere on the east end of the town and all Carol was doing was making a grilled cheese sandwich.

_God, get yourself together Danvers._

She remembered now. Carol remembered the bright lights of the city, dropping Monica off at a friend’s house, running into those men with the eagle symbol on their chests, and watching her girlfriend be thrown into a lake. She remembered being drugged, waking up in a trunk, drugged again, and brought back to her house.

Hydra. Hydra was responsible. Those low-life, dirty little scumbags that the lesser captain always complains about. They would be the reason Maria is sick, drowning, or dead. There petty terrorism and revenge plots were targeting her family.

Carol was mad.

So mad, in fact, she took to the sky almost instantly, zooming over buildings until she could see the destination.

Flying faster than a wild deer being chased by a hunter, Carol came closer and closer to the spot. The spot where she had last seen the love of her life.

There, along the edge of the water, she could make out Maria’s face. Still stuck beneath the water, after at least an hour, her hands and feet bound together by vibranium cuffs.

Maria wasn’t even enhanced, the cuffs were just a taunt for when Carol eventually found the body.

Resting a warm hand on her girlfriend’s cold cheek, Carol once again reminded herself that all was lost.


	15. October 20- Trembling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> However, upon waking in the early hours one morning with a scream, Thor noticed a familiar weight inside his chest. The telltale sign of a nightmare, forgotten but still heavy, caused his body to shake.

The god of thunder had nightmares. Awful, terrible nightmares that had plagued him from a young age. Of course, the aforementioned frights have been positively dreadful since the beginning of time. Thor should know, he’s been around for a good portion of it. In fact, when he was nine, he once had a nightmare that consisted of his younger brother falling off of the face of Asgard, only to land in a bottomless pit of scolding lava.

Of course, upon waking, he ran to Loki’s room to check that the young child was sleeping soundly, a fact which proved thankfully true, but he felt the undying need to hold the boy exceedingly close for the next week. Loki was, to say the least, unimpressed.

Still, no one could blame the young god of thunder, as he was barely old enough to control his own bladder; however, it was a flaw Odin quickly took care of. The man fed his eldest son the same drink every night until the boy was old enough to make it for himself.

That is, until he came to midgard. The nightmares had slowed, being quickly replaced by pleasant dreams of the avengers and him playing chess or running laps around the city. Not a nightmare in sight, or mind, rather.

However, upon waking in the early hours one morning with a scream, Thor noticed a familiar weight inside his chest. The telltale sign of a nightmare, forgotten but still heavy, caused his body to shake. 

Rushing into the kitchen, he prepared the familiar drink to the best of his memory, and guzzled it down at full force.

While the mixture had tasted sweet and minty in his youth, Thor quickly came to the realization that it now tasted bitter and ale-like. Not fit for a nighttime remedy at all. His shaking hands enhanced in speed, bringing the god to drop the bottle, letting the glass break around his feet.

Cleaning up, he grew pensive of his many options. Perhaps Anthony had a more midgardian variant of the sleep aid on hand, the man was known to have nightmares as well, after all. Unfortunately, though, Anthony’s ensuite medicine cabinet proved empty. Only half-full bottles of PTSD medication and the occasional bottle of biofreeze. Nothing for sleep.

He checked the other rooms, even Natasha’s, only to find the same results. He was doomed to never rest again. Maybe he would die in the night and never realize it, believing himself to be having another terrorizing dream. He would deserve it, truly, for having never gotten over his childish flaw. 

His hands were shaking like they never had before, nearly causing his legs to fall unsteady. Walking back to his own bedroom, he panted, and laid on his bed with a gentle sigh. Perhaps nightmares didn’t really ever go away.


	16. October 22- Hallucination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can’t even summarize this one sorry

A haze of dust and water vapor filled the empty graveyard, doused with hints of a sickly jade. Two pure white slabs laid upon the thick blades of brightly hued Astroturf, replacing the once beautiful flooring of colored glass. Each stone read a name, engraved with care and monetary expectations beyond fathomable numbers. Each letter joined together, dancing throughout the english lexicon, only to form a name.

A name, and two dates, with a small message underneath.

** _Captain Steven Grant Rogers_ **   
** _07/04/1918-04/26/2019_ **   
** _Golden Of Heart, Strong Of Mind, Missed By All_ **

** _Anthony Edward Stark_ **   
** _05/29/1970-04/26/2019_ **   
** _The Man Who Built A Shield Around The World_ **

Nearby, surrounded by beds of flowers, a smooth, clean granite countertop were engraved just as nicely, proclaiming their own sonnet. Like a movie, the haze fled from the space it occupied, making it stick out from the others. There, in gracious vernacular and overwhelmingly fanciful font, the mood was pushed to become even more grim.

_ **Natasha Romanoff** _   
_ **08/12/1984-04/26/2019** _   
_ **One Soul For All Of Ours** _

In a shift, the haze grew darker. The monuments replaced themselves, fading towards the ground, and collecting themselves in the form of three corpses.

The three bodies seemed to spread, growing more and more dead figures along the faux grass. Each new body a different face, lined with a unique expression of peril.

What was happening? Why was the room spinning?

Oh no.

Blinking away the misty blur, Peter found himself back in the all-too-familiar empty jail cell.


	17. October 23- Bleeding Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His thoughts became cluttered, filling with panic and lost desire. He redirected his attention to his family, and soon onto his family not related by blood. Remembering Natasha and Coulson made him cry. Was he going to see them?

_It hurts, oh god, it hurts._

Clint was trapped, no doubt. Pounds upon pounds of metal and concrete crushed every orifice of his body.

_Someone, anyone, help me._

He felt the pieces being moved around, frantic agents trying to free him from the fallen rubble. Each time one of them would pull a pillar off of his foot, the damage shifted onto his chest.

_Please._

The weight only grew, pushing against his chest with a menacing creak. “Stop!” Larson shouted, trying to save the poor man’s vital organs. The heart was too important, they couldn’t risk letting the weight of a single building be the fall of their best agent left.

_I just wanna go home._

Suddenly, his vision was blurring, as he heard the telltale gush of spilling blood underneath him. Changing his focus, Clint noticed that he had been slightly impaled by something, god knows what, and his side was leaking bright red liquid all over the site.

_MAKE IT STOP!_

As the flow increased, Clint’s head began spinning, only lessening when he closed his eyes. “Keep ‘em open, Barton!” They screamed, lightly shaking his shoulders. It was no use, Clint’s senses were already feeling much more relaxed. A little too relaxed.

_HELP!_

All at once, the sounds of the agents around him began to fade. Each voice that wasn’t screaming drew into silence, leaving the man alone with only his thoughts to accompany the small whispers of shouts.

_PLEASE! I NEED HELP!_

Clint’s breathing slowed, as he gasped for a taste of the smoke-ridden air. There was not a molecule that could reach his collapsed lungs.

_OH GOD, NO, NO!_

His thoughts became cluttered, filling with panic and lost desire. He redirected his attention to his family, and soon onto his family not related by blood. Remembering Natasha and Coulson made him cry. Was he going to see them?

_HELP ME!_

“Pull him outta there!” One agent shouted, just barely loud enough for Clint to make out a whisper of his voice, what was his name again? Oh. Oh no.

_MAKE I-_


	18. October 27- Ransom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Like what you see?”  
“I gave you the money, now give me my daughter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am soooo sorry, I’ve been frantically writing the 200 follower celebration fic, and didn’t have time to write anything else. Here’s a little something to hold you dudes over. Forgive me? Yeah, I wouldn’t either.

_Morgan. No._

Morgan Hope Stark was gone, vanished from her butterfly bedroom in the middle of the night. The security cameras showed no more than a group of masked men scaling the wall to her window, and carrying a small figure back to their getaway car. As if she’d simply dissipated into thin air, the only thing left behind was a short note.

** _ Two thousand. Address on the back. Come alone. Be there at 6 tonight. We’ll give you Morgan back in exchange for the cash. _ **

What was a dad to do? Cry? Check. Scream? Check. And then, well, get angry. And cry some more. A lot of crying.

_Give her back. Please._

The police couldn’t help. They never could. Those incompetent fools took nothing seriously, after all. No, this was Tony’s problem. He could solve it on his own. He didn’t need them.

She was probably hurt, maybe they’d left her crying in the street, alone in some alley. Perhaps they didn’t even take her in the first place. Maybe she was hidden in a closet somewhere, tied up and waiting for daddy to save her. Like Jonbenet.

Or maybe it was worse.

_She can’t be... she isn’t._

Even when he came to the location, cash in hand, armed with the best nanotechnology he could scrounge up, he realized that he was alone. Not physically, no, he brought FRIDAY, he wasn’t that dumb. But mentally, spiritually, all that other bull... he was alone.

Iron Man saved others in need, but when Iron Man was in need, who saved him?

When he entered the building, he found nothing more than a man clad in a white mask. “Sorry, who are you?” The low voice joked, cracking up at the businessman in distress. Lots and lots of distress. On many levels.

_Don’t lie to me, Marshmellow, I’m not in the mood._

”Here’s the two thousand.” Tony grumbled, staring at the man opposite him. “Hand my daughter over.” Carefully, the other took the cash, and shoved it into a deep pocket. Only to begin chuckling again.

The man began looking around the room, likely stalling for time. He flipped through the money, holding it out for Tony to look at. “Like what you see?” 

“I gave you the money, now give me my daughter.”

“Feisty, I get it.” The man held his arms up in surrender, using the most mocking tone Tony had ever heard, only to allow a fine smirk to enter his faceless voice as he began his next phrase.

_“_Do you honestly think we kept the heiress to a multi-billion dollar corporation alive for more than five minutes?” The offender cackled, strolling away with ease. “We put a bullet in that kid’s head before we even left the city. She’s dead.”

_Oh._

”She isn’t.” Tony insisted, allowing a sleek repulser to materialize on his stretched out palm. “She is.” The man replied, signaling for a dozen guards to enter the room. 

One, clearly the larger of the bunch, was carrying a small body. A small body with long brown hair, a little button nose, and hello kitty pajamas.

_Oh god._

”We told you we’d give Morgan back if you brought us the money, we never said anything about keeping her alive.” He remarked, turning away. “Thanks for the cash, daddy.”

His daughter was dropped at his feet, as the people left the building entirely, hopping into a car immediately. He didn’t bother to shoot, he was too preoccupied examining the fine bullet hole running through his child’s temples.

_Please, please. Not her. Not my little girl._

But Tony knew it was too late. He was too late. Because there, in his arms, was Morgan Hope Stark. Dead.

_Please._


	19. October 29- Numb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steven Grant Rogers, even being the idiot he was, was more than old enough to know how to keep his hands to himself. Somehow, though, he always managed to get into a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out 2.2 Million, my new fic, I’m very excited about the reactions I’m getting on this one!  
Also- this chapter is set around the time of Homecoming, so the Rouges are still in hiding.

“For the last time, you aren’t dying.”

Looking down at Steve’s frame, buried in a pile of pillows as he drools all over himself and his T-shirt, which was proudly emblazoned with _Team Iron Man_, it almost felt like a lie. “Yesh I am! It feews funnyyyy.” Not to mention the ridiculous lisp the war hero had adopted from the heavy amounts of gauze that had to be shoved in his mouth.

“Alright, sure. You’re dying. That make you feel better, Captain? You want me to tell you you’re dying?” Sam continued, tutting as he checked the man’s head. Warm, of course. Steve had went through a lot of stress in the last few hours.

“Nuuuuhhhhh uhhhhhhhhhhhh.” Steve whined, shaking his head. Poor thing was in enough pain, despite the many sedatives that had been pumped into his system.

Steven Grant Rogers, even being the idiot he was, was more than old enough to know how to keep his hands to himself. Somehow, though, he always managed to get into a fight. Which was exactly why he was currently lying in a bed with less teeth than he had the day before.

“Let off him, Sam. He’s delusional.” Bucky ordered, strolling into the room with his usual swagger. “Yeaaa let offf meeee!”

Sam chuckled at Steve’s babbling, giving the man a gentle pat on the cheek as he explained himself. “Yeah, that’s why I’m talking to him in the first place.” The other, however, was not impressed. “He’s delusional!” Bucky argued, coming closer to protect his best friend. “Ammmmm nooottttt, Buggy.” Steve whined.

Bucky chose not to acknowledge the disgusting slander upon his name.

“No, really! You know how viral videos of this stuff go? Like, super viral. If Nat’d just let us have Internet connection, we’d be golden. Imagine the title: Captain America After The Dentist” Sam added, trying to convince Bucky to give into his antics. It was sure to work. “Sam. No.”

Or not.

“Fine, fine. But next time, we’re recording this.” He complained, stomping his way out of the room. “You expect him to knock a tooth out again?” Bucky asked. “Well...” Sam trailed off a little. “He is an idiot.”

“I wanna go tuh see da stawssss.”

“You ain’t wrong.”


	20. October 30- Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How’s she doing?” Steve asked, taking in the many tubes and wires that had been plunged into Wanda’s body. “Well...” Cho started, only to trail off as she sighed at the charts around the room. Finally, Bruce interrupted. “Not good.”

_“Wanda, no!”_

_“I have to, Steve. It’s the only way.”_

_“You can’t just do this. Think about your life. Think about Vision!”_

_“He can go on without me. You don’t understand.”_

_“But I do!”_

_“I’m sorry, Steve.”_

-

He couldn’t believe what had just happened.

Despite, the hours Steve had been allotted to process, it all seemed to surreal. He had seen Wanda, even after all the work they’d put into not having to lose another team member, willingly take on the force of a bomb.

She was lucky to be alive.

The thought of it kept reminding him of Bucky, he supposed seeing your best friend fall to their assumed death would do that to a person. Even with everything he’d been through, even after losing everything (and getting it all back), he had never recovered. Too many nightmares and not enough time spent around his friend to remind him of reality.

Speaking of Bucky, the super soldier wasn’t doing too hot himself. He was completely distraught, refusing to leave the medical ward unless he had Wanda with him. He wouldn’t even eat, despite the fact that Tony had made him ziti al forno, his favorite. He just wanted Wanda to be safe.

“How’s she doing?” Steve asked, taking in the many tubes and wires that had been plunged into Wanda’s body. “Well...” Cho started, only to trail off as she sighed at the charts around the room. Finally, Bruce interrupted. “Not good.”

“That bad, huh?” He asked, examining a few heart rate graphs that had been sat in the corner of the room. “She’s taking well to the medication, and I’m sure she’ll be awake in a day or so. She just needs time to settle.” Bruce explained. “It puts a lot of stress on a person, you know, doing all that. Guess we’ve all had our own moment of heroism, though, so it isn’t much of a surprise that she was the only one with the power to take it on. Perhaps the universe just has it out for us.”

”Yeah, maybe.” Steve agreed, pulling up a chair. Bruce looked out into the hall, examining the long-haired gentlemen with a grieving frown. “You think Bucky would like a haircut, or a spa day? We need to take his mind off of all this, can’t risk having two avengers in the hospital. You know the bad guys’ll hit us hard once they get word of that.”

Steve groaned, shrugging to himself. “Not sure. Ask him.” “I can’t, he won’t speak to me, Cho neither.” “Then try again!” He snapped, letting the stress get to him for a moment. “Sorry, sorry, nevermind. Yeah, sure, get him a haircut. He’ll probably want more on top, less on bottom.”

Bruce checked the man over, worried about the outburst. “You sure you’re okay?” He asked.

”Yeah.” Steve replied. “I’m fine.”

But they all knew Steve wasn’t fine, even the hero himself. He was better than Wanda, though, so that had to be something.


	21. October 31- Embrace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Mr. Stark?”   
“Yeah, kid?”  
“I missed this.”

In his frenzy to escape from the bad guys, Peter barely recognized his mentor.

Tony’s face was old and worn, tired from years of depression and age. But that was nothing compared to the man’s hair, which was now speckled with grey and blonde, replacing the voluminous brown from mere moments ago. Or, rather, 5 years ago.

Oh.

5 years ago.

_That’s why Mr. Stark looks so old._

Peter claimed to understand the concept of the lost years when Strange had explained it, but the speech was too long for his young attention span, and he hadn’t entirely come to terms with it. Still, seeing Mr. Stark all grey and grown up, it suddenly all made sense.

For five years, Peter Parker had been dead. Like his parents, and uncle ben, and... and... and Hitler! Okay, weird choice of an example, but at least he got there.

And, knowing that he had been dead, it was as if his yen for his not-father-no-way-never-nuh-uh only grew, challenging him to run. And run he did. 

Peter sped through the brush and debris, keeping his eyes on the prize the entire time. The prize being touching Mr. Stark, resting his hand on the man’s shoulder or wrist, so he might prove to himself that this is all real. That he isn’t still 13 years old, lying in his Iron-Man bedsheets with protective underwear because, much to Peter’s chagrin, his health problem decided they couldn’t let him sleep in peace. He needed to prove to himself that this wasn’t a dream.

So, he ran faster.  
  
Racing to meet his hero, Peter saw Tony’s face shift into a grin of relief, as he began to run towards the child. Knowing the Mr. Stark was excited to see him was everything and more.

When the two males reached eachother, their arms wrapped around the respective waists, squeezing eachother with a vigorous excitement. And, when they finally spoke, it was as if the fewest of words could have lifted the spell.

“Mr. Stark?”   
“Yeah, kid?”  
“I missed this.”

Smiling, Tony kissed Peter on the cheek, making his reply with a sly smirk across his old lips.

“Same here, Spider-Boy.”

And in that moment, Peter knew. This was real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s all folks! Check out my other stories, as well as my MCU tumblr sideblog badmcuposts (where I post the occasional fic early, and give updates on my multi-chapters). See you all later!


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